


Hard Time Losin' Man

by howdyspacebuddy (eigengrau)



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: 70s Folk Rock, Bisexual Male Character, Developing Relationship, Emotionally Constipated Grown-Ass Adult Men, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Self Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7039144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/howdyspacebuddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks before Christmas, Holland gets his cast off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Time Losin' Man

**Author's Note:**

> A warning: The boys use some language in this that's dated but appropriate for the period, mostly in relationship to themselves, and a lot of which is thought of today as slurs (i.e. "queer", "fag", etc.) Their sexuality politics are pretty backwards by modern standards but I think that this is how they'd define themselves, given the terminology and stuff that would have been available to them back then. 
> 
> Named after a Jim Croce song and name dropping even more Croce songs, because that's what I was listening to while I wrote this lol

A few weeks before Christmas, five days before Judith Kuttner’s trial, Holland gets his cast off. Doctor Alpert, who has an unfortunately long blonde ‘stache dangling off his face and is wearing the ugliest paisley tie known to man, cuts it into pieces as Holland sits on the exam table, cracking the plaster in two. Holland’s arm is pale and looks like a cooked noodle.

From the spot where he stands across the room, leaning on the wall, Jackson wrinkles his nose. Holland frowns at him. “What?”

“It smells.”

“Well, fuck you very much, Mr. Fresh-As-A-Daisy. It’s your fault.” Holland turns to the doctor. “Can I wash this in your bathroom before I leave?”

Dr. Alpert ignores him. “Does this hurt?” he says, rotating Holland’s wrist.

Holland shakes his head. “Nah. Kinda stiff, though.”

“That’s perfectly normal. Are you on any painkillers right now?”

Holland squints. “Does rum count as a painkiller?”

“Yes.” Jackson interjects. Holland rolls his eyes.

The doctor’s office is nearly empty on a Tuesday morning. The only other people in the waiting room were a frazzled-looking mother and her toe-headed little seven year-old, who had kept sneezing aggressively close to where Healy and March were sitting, much to Holland’s horror. Still, they had been kept waiting for nearly forty-five minutes, only narrowly avoiding the kid’s snotty projectiles. Dr. Alpert, it seems, enjoys taking his sweet time.

Alpert jots something down on his clipboard. “For the next few days—”

“—You’re gonna want to soak it in warm water, twenty minutes in the morning and twenty at night,” Jackson interrupts.

“Twenty minutes? That’s like, forever,” Holland whines.

“I’m sorry, who are you again?” The doctor asks with a scowl. Jackson fixes him with a deadpan stare.

“I’m Mr. March’s business associate.”

Holland reaches for his arm, “This itches like fucking _crazy_ —“

“Don’t scratch that,” the doctor and Jackson say in unison. They glare at each other. Holland glances between the two of them—Alpert’s puffing up his chest and Jackson, who had previously been reading a brochure on measles, folds up his reading glasses and carefully returns them to his jacket pocket. Jesus.

“You’re going to experience weakness for the next few weeks, due to muscular atrophy,” Alpert addresses March, still staring down Healy. “We’ll get you a splint to use until it feels stronger—”

“You’re not gonna give him a sling?” Jackson contests.

Alpert smacks his palm down on the exam table next to Holland’s thigh. Holland jumps. “Are you a medical professional?” The doctor spits.

Jackson squares up to him. “I’m just someone who’s broken a lot of limbs.” His voice is flat. It is ambiguous whether the broken limbs belonged to Healy or to someone else. Holland, knowing the answer, rolls his eyes.

“Can you guys stop measuring your dicks? I got a weird arm over here that needs dealing with.” He wiggles it around. The doctor winces.

“Please be more careful with that, Mr. March. Just because your cast is off doesn’t mean you’re not still healing.”

“Fu Manchu has a point.” Jackson ignores the doctor as he clears his throat angrily. “You gotta be gentle with yourself.”

Holland snorts. “Seriously? Says the guy who threw himself in front of a moving car last week.”

“It was only going five miles an hour—”

“Hypocrite Healy over here—”

“I’m sorry, would you have preferred it if he got away?”

“What do you people _do_ for a living?” Dr. Alpert blurts out, interrupting them. They break away from bickering and fix him with matching glares.

“We’re private eyes.” Holland flings a business card at the doctor and, attempting to hop gracefully off the exam table, manages to fall on his face, dragging the wax paper he’s sitting on with him.

* * *

 

“I mean, it’s not like clumsy and stupid are the same thing, you can be one and not the other—”

“Nobody said you were stupid, March.”

Holland clambers into the passenger’s side of the convertible as Jackson slides into the driver’s seat. Jackson narrows his eyes at Holland.

“What?”

“C’mere.” He takes Holland’s face in one hand, brushing the hair off his forehead. Holland, suddenly, feels incredibly self-conscious. Did he shave this morning? He definitely didn’t.

Jackson examines his face for a long minute. Holland can feel his cheeks getting hot. “What is it? Seriously.”

Jackson lets go and turns back to the wheel, starting up the engine. “That’s gonna bruise. You should put some ice on it when you get home.”

Holland reaches up and rubs the spot above his eye where Jackson’s fingers had been a second ago. It’s sore. Holland’s face has met enough floors in his life for him to know that Jackson’s right. Of course he’s right. Holland prods it again, lets the dull pain throb for a second before he puts on his sunglasses.

“You said, ‘we’re’ private eyes,” Jackson says as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Yeah? So?”

“So technically I don’t have a license.”

Holland shrugs. “We solved a case, man. Together. Far as I’m concerned, that’s basically a license right there.”

Jackson’s mouth curves up in a half smile.

It’s a surprisingly smog-less day, and the traffic on the drive back to the March’s rental is freakishly thin for LA. Jackson turns the radio to a folk station and they breeze through the freeway to the sound of Jim Croce. Holly says that kind of music is for old people, but she was only eight when Croce died, okay, and he’s caught her listening to The Captain and Tennille unironically so what the hell does she know? He turns up the radio as “Tomorrow’s Gonna Be A Brighter Day” hits the chorus and Jackson starts to hum along, so whatever, they’re both old people.

Holland watches Jackson as he drives. The both of them are looking a little more perked-up around the edges, despite the significant collection of bruises and contusions between them. It’s hot and clear, the desert winds keeping the sky free of clouds, and Jackson’s eyes are awfully blue and _wow_ was that not a normal thought to have? Holland slouches back in his seat and fixes his gaze on the palm trees that whizz past outside the car. His arm itches like Hell in its sling. Sitting still in the car, suddenly, is driving him crazy.

They pull up outside the house and Jackson parks the car. Holland lets himself out and pauses for a second, leaning on the door.

“You want a drink, man?” He asks.

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“There’s some YooHoo in the fridge and I promise I won’t tell Holly that you’re the one stealing her chocolate milk.”

Jackson thinks, shrugs. “Why not,” he says, and throws the keys to Holland.

Holland is acutely aware of Jackson’s presence as he follows him into the house. He moves into the kitchen and pulls off his sling, grabbing a beer for himself and tossing Jackson a bottle of YooHoo. They crack them open on the counter, and Holland’s mouth goes a little dry as he watches Jackson’s throat work, swallowing his drink. Holland chases the sight with a gulp of beer, spluttering his way into a coughing fit when it goes down the wrong way.

“You okay there?” Holland nods, takes another swig.

“Jesus, it’s hot. It’s really hot today, right?”

“I guess,” Jackson cocks his head. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Holland waves him off, but reaches for his bad arm absently. “This itches like a motherfucker, though—”

“Don’t scratch, remember?”

“Ugh. What the hell am I supposed to do, then?”

“C’mere.” Jackson stands up, beckons for him to follow. Holland meanders after him into his bedroom, to find Jackson shoving a half-empty bottle of hand lotion into his face.

Holland eyes the bottle. “What’s that for?”

“You’ve gotta moisturize. It’ll stop the itching, get rid of all the dead skin. Works like a charm, trust me.”

Holland takes the moisturizer from him gingerly. “That’s, uh. That’s not what I use this stuff for.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “March, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but lotion can be used for more than just jerking—”

“Jesus, I know, I fucking know.” Holland can feel himself starting to blush. What a fuckin’ embarrassment. “It’s just—you know, germs and stuff—”

“Who’s the hypocrite now? Don’t say ‘and stuff’. And it works just fine.”

Holland sits on the bed and spreads a generous amount of lotion on his arm. It’s warm, and Healy’s right—it melts right into the skin, and the itchiness fades away. The arm even looks a little less gross. Jackson is scoping out the room, taking in the clothes on the floor and the framed photo of Holly on the dresser. Holland waves his arm awkwardly.

“Smell any better?” He asks. Jackson chuckles.

“Yeah, you’re fine.”

“Well, thank fuck for that.” Holland puts the lotion back on his bedside table. Suddenly, he’s hyper-aware of the two of them, alone in the room, the silence growing between them.

Jackson turns to him. “Nice room,” he says, gesturing around.

Holland bounces on the mattress a little. “Thanks. I was thinking about saving up for a water bed—”

Jackson shoots him a bemused look. “Those things are awful easy to break.”

“Oh.” Holland scratches behind his ear. “That’s, uh—”

“When does Holly get out of school, again?”

Holland lets out a long breath. “Three?” he says, voice pitched a little higher than he’d have liked.

“Okay.” Jackson nods as if deep in thought. Looks Holland right in the eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Holland chokes out.

Jackson takes a step towards him. From where Holland’s sitting he towers over him, solid and tall, which is a crazy thought because Holland is at least two inches taller—

Holland forces himself to cut the chatter of his internal monologue as Jackson fixes him with a look. He feels like they’re having a staring contest.

Sounding almost nervous, Jackson coughs. He gestures between the two of them. “I’m getting… signals.” He starts. Holland’s stomach drops. “And I’m trying to figure out if I’m reading them right or not.”

“What? Like Morse code?” Holland quips, then kicks himself immediately. What the fuck. Morse code?

Jackson smiles thinly. “Not really.”

Jesus, here it comes, Holland thinks to himself, and braces for an asskicking. And he had hoped this might work out.

Jackson takes a deep breath. “I’m not a queer,” he says, and Holland winces and shuts his eyes in anticipation— “And I know you’re not, either, but fuck, March, you’re drivin’ me crazy.”

Holland opens one eye. He blinks up at Jackson, who looks like he might be sick.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he blurts out. Jackson looks stung, but not surprised.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, “That shit was out of line, I should’ve—I’ll just let myself out, pretend I didn’t say anything—”

“Wait wait wait, stop.” Holland holds up both hands. His heart is beating out a tattoo under his Hawaiian shirt. Jackson freezes, and Holland realizes he’s got no idea where to go from here.

“I’m not a queer either,” he says, slowly.

“Okay.”

“Well, not like. Not a whole queer.” He concedes, biting his lip. “Maybe half a queer?”

“Isn’t that like being a little bit pregnant?”

“Nah, man, haven’t you ever read the Kinsey report?”

“No,” Jackson says, the calm in his voice contradicting the deeply uncomfortable look on his face, “can’t say that I have.”

They’re both edging a little into panic, and Holland tries to backpedal rapidly. “I’m not saying—this isn’t coming out right.” He seems to have lost the ability to form a coherent sentence; this isn’t an irregular occurrence, but this is pretty much the worst possible time for it to happen. “I just…” He fumbles around for the right words, frustration building until finally he slams his palms down on the mattress, getting to his feet. “Damn it! Just come here.”

Jackson takes a tentative step forward and Holland grabs him by the lapels, smashing their lips together. Calling it a kiss might be a bit of a stretch, but their mouths are touching, and the intention’s the same.

Holland pulls away, and now _he_ feels like he might be sick. Jackson’s expression is unreadable. “Too much?” Holland ventures.

Jackson takes Holland’s face in his hands and kisses him. For real. Properly. Tongue gets involved surprisingly quickly. Jackson bites down gently on Holland’s lower lip, sucks, and for a hot second Holland sees Nixon behind his eyelids.

“Holy shit,” Holland gasps.

“This is okay?” Jackson asks.

“Are you kidding me? Put your tongue back in my mouth.”

Jackson complies. A few minutes later, Holland drops back to sit on the bed, fingers scrambling at Jackson’s belt buckle.

“Woah,” Jackson grabs at his hands, stopping him. “What are you doing?”

Holland glances from Jackson’s crotch to his face. “Is that really a question that you needed to ask?”

“This is moving a little fast, is all.”

“Too fast?”

Jackson squints down at him. “Have you done this before?”

Holland shrugs, one-shouldered. “A couple of times in college, and then at a party with Holly’s mom and this one guy—”

“Seriously?” Jackson looks mortified.

“I mean, it was one of _those_ parties,” he mimes dropping keys into a bowl, “and there was an odd number of us there. And y’know. She was very supportive.”

“Jesus.”

“What about you?”

“Nah.” Jackson shakes his head. “You’re an outlier.”

“I’m flattered.”

Jackson drops a hand to the top of Holland’s head and plays with a tuft of his hair. Holland shuts his eyes and hums low in the back of his throat, and Jackson lets out a groan.

“You really want to do this?”

“I’m sorry,” Holland palms the bulge in Jackson’s jeans, “Was I being too subtle?”

“You’re a piece of work,” Jackson exhales as Holland goes to town on his belt.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Holland says as he pops Jackson’s button fly. Jackson reaches down to pull his cock out, and Holland’s eyes go wide. “Holy _shit_. Should have guessed you’d be packing.” Jackson smiles smugly. Holland wraps his good hand around the shaft and gives him an experimental tug, and the smile turns into a hiss.

“All good?”

“Little rough.”

“Sorry,” Holland spits into his palm, and tries again. Jackson inhales sharply.

“Better?”

“Much.” There’s an edge to Jackson’s voice, tense, like he’s having trouble controlling himself. It turns Holland on like the power switch in a lamp emporium, and he ducks down to take the head of Jackson’s cock into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Jackson nearly gasps, and to be honest Holland’s gotta agree. His conception of flavor may be fucked up because of the whole no-sense-of-smell thing, but even he can tell that Jackson tastes great, clean and warm. Holland runs his tongue over the velvety bulb of Jackson’s cock before pulling off with a pop.

“Your dick is a gift,” he blurts out.

Jackson squints down at him. “Thank you,” he says, breathless.

Holland goes back to work, taking in more and more of Jackson until he can feel the head of his cock bump up against the back of his throat. He’s long and thick, hung like a fucking horse. Holland screws his eyes shut and wills himself to relax, swallowing around him almost reflexively. His face is hot and he knows he’s flushed, hair falling into his eyes. Jackson’s hand drifts down to brush at the edge of Holland’s mouth, tracing the stretch of lips with his thumb. He swears softly, just above a whisper, and Holland moans around his cock, reaching down to fumble with his own fly.

And then suddenly his mouth is empty. Holland blinks and stares up at Jackson, who’s breathing heavily, one hand around the base of his dick. “You okay?” Holland asks, wiping the drool off his chin.

Jackson nods. “Don’t want you to have to do all the work,” he huffs.

“Oh hey, that’s not a problem—” Holland reaches for him again, but Jackson steps to one side. “Seriously, I don’t mind.”

“No way.” Jackson shakes his head and gently pushes him onto his back. “Lie down.”

Holland’s dick twitches at the roughness in his voice. Still standing, Jackson sheds his shirt and pants, and Holland scrambles out of his clothes, struggling with one shoe and finally flinging it across the room. Jackson climbs onto the bed, grabbing one of Holland’s legs in each hand and settling between them.

Holland gapes down at him, runs nervous fingers through his hair. “Fuck,” he swears.

“You’re telling me,” Jackson mutters, and Holland lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. “I’ve never done this before, so you’re gonna have to tell me if I’m doing anything wrong.”

“Never done what—?” Jackson takes him into his mouth and Holland has to fight not to buck up into the wet warmth. “Oh, right. Yeah. That. I can—I can give pointers.”

From between his legs, Jackson raises an eyebrow at him.

“Hah,” Holland huffs, “okay. Uh… don’t rush yourself. Like, don’t push yourself too hard…”

He trails off, breath leaving him in a rush as Jackson hollows his cheeks and sucks around the tip of his cock. Holland grits his teeth and presses a hand over his eyes.

“Oh God. You’re gonna have to—hold my hips down, man, otherwise I’m gonna—”

Jackson’s rough palms bracket Holland’s hips just in time, as a well-placed swipe of his tongue sends Holland arching his back with a muffled curse. He takes the hand off his eyes and immediately puts it back—the sight of Jackson, head bobbing shallowly and eyes shut and mouth stretched pink around his cock, is enough to make him start running through his times tables in a frantic effort not to come. Holland leaves his noodley arm dangling off the side of the bed—he doesn’t want to grab Jackson by the hair, as much as he _totally wants to grab Jackson by the hair oh my GOD_. He’s almost as conscious of how desperate he is to not scare Jackson off as he is of how fucking good Jackson’s mouth is for a guy who claims to have never sucked someone off before.

Jackson lowers his head, even more of Holland’s cock sliding into his mouth and holy hell it’s good—and then Jackson gags and pulls off, coughing. Holland struggles up to his elbows.

“Shit, man, are you okay?” Jackson waves him off and ducks back down, but Holland holds him off by the shoulder. “I think that’s enough for your first time. Like I said, don’t push yourself.” Holland’s dick gives a sad twitch where it’s lying sticky against his stomach.

Jackson, in the meantime, has gone down to a half-chub. Holland gets that—it’s hard to focus on anything but the basics your first time sucking dick. But it’s not fair that he’s all worked up while Jackson’s been doing the work—so he pulls him up and plants a sloppy kiss on him, reaching down to wrap a hand around Jackson’s cock. Jackson gasps into his mouth and returns the gesture.

After some shuffling they lie side by side, stroking each other. This, Holland thinks to himself as Jackson sucks a kiss into the junction between his throat and shoulder, would be a perfectly acceptable way to die. He flicks his wrist and suddenly Jackson is shuddering against him as he comes, spilling into the space between them. Holland follows soon after with a muffled cry of “Holy fucking shit!” as Jackson groans into his chest.

They lie there for a second, both panting. There’s come on Holland’s thigh and he isn’t sure whose it is. When Jackson blinks for a second, he wipes it off on the sheets.

Jackson clears his throat. “So,” he says, “We should probably talk about this.”

“Do we have to? I don’t think we have to.” Holland sits up. “I’m gonna have a cigarette.” He fishes the pack out of his jacket where it’s lying on the floor and props himself up against his pillows as he lights it, sucking in a lungful of smoke.

Jackson pulls on his boxers, frowning. “What are we gonna tell Holly?”

“Um. Nothing?” Holland waves his cigarette in the air, dropping ash on his lap.

“You’ve gotta tell her something.”

“Like what? ‘Sweetheart, Mr. Healy and I are fags and we just blew each other while you were at school. Want a cookie?’”

“We’re not—”

“I just had your dick in my mouth. And vice versa.” Holland scratches at his arm and pointedly ignores the glare Jackson shoots him. “That’s pretty gay.”

“You’re seriously gonna do this? Just pretend like that didn’t happen.”

Holland blinks. “I mean, yeah. That’s what you wanna hear, right?”

Jackson shakes his head in disgust. “Jesus. Didn’t you want this?”

“Well, yeah. Obviously.” Holland blows smoke out through his nose. “But I mean, whatever, you explored your sexuality, you got off, it’s all fine. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. Why ruin a good thing, right?”

Jackson settles back down on the bed. “Are you a fuckin’ idiot?”

Holland points the cigarette at him. “I resent that.”

“No, seriously, were you dropped on your head as a baby? Are you concussed right fucking now?”

“I’m at least seventy percent certain that I’m not.”

Jackson looms over him. “I don’t wanna be your one night stand, March, you moron.”

“Could we stop with the name calling, please?” Holland’s body hums with their proximity. Fucking ridiculous. He can’t even self-sabotage a relationship properly anymore. What’s the world coming to?

“I wanna do this again tomorrow, and the next day. I wanna come here instead of going to my shitty apartment. I wanna move my fish tank into your living room.” Jackson stares him down, blue eyes hitting his like he can stare into his fucking soul, which is majorly intimidating. “I wanna fuck you, Holland. And I don’t wanna forget about it.”

Holland realizes that his cigarette has burned down to the filter while he’s been transfixed with Jackson, and he’s about ten seconds away from burning his fingertips. He stubs it out on the ashtray on the bedside table, beside his bottle of lotion. His weird arm is itching again, and Holland is struck suddenly with the strange thought that he desperately wants to kiss the guy who broke it in the first place.

“This is a strange fucking world,” he says aloud. Jackson raises one eyebrow. “And you’re a strange fucking guy.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re not exactly normal yourself.”

“Why me?” Holland can’t stop the words from coming out. “Of all fucking people, why me?”

Jackson considers that for a moment. Holland thinks he’s about to bust out something heavy, or sappy, or both, but instead he just shrugs. “I dunno,” Jackson says, “it just happened.”

* * *

 

By three PM, they’re both fully dressed again and Holland is soaking his arm in the kitchen sink while Jackson sips a YooHoo at the counter. Holland pokes gingerly at the purple bite mark blossoming on his throat.

“Jesus, would you look at this?” He examines it in his reflection in the window above the sink. “Are you secretly a vampire?”

“You think I’d live in LA if I was a vampire? That’d be a poor life choice.” Jackson swipes at the condensation on his glass bottle with one finger.

“Or undeath choice,” Holland ventures. Jackson stares at him. “What?”

“Your forehead,” Jackson points. “Already starting to bruise.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m so covered in purple blotches I look like a goddamn Monet.”

The door swings open and Holly bounds in, dragging her backpack behind her. “Dad! I’m home!” She catches sight of Jackson, and her face lights up. “Mr. Healy!”

Jackson smiles, waggling his fingers at her. “Hey, kiddo.”

Holland pops his collar to hide the hickey. “You have a good day at school, sweetheart?”

“I got an A on a test and beat up a boy who was trying to look under Jessica’s skirt at recess.”

“I’m not condoning violence, but I like your initiative.”

Jackson stands up from the counter. “I should be going.”

“Oh,” Holly falters for a second, then manages to hide her disappointment. Both Holland and Jackson notice anyway. “You’re not staying?”

“Well, I’ve already been here for a while hanging out with your dad,” Jackson says. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding! We weren’t even doing anything tonight. I was going to do my homework and dad’s just going to watch M*A*S*H until he passes out.” Holly drops her bag to the floor, shooting her father an imploring look.

“Holly, Mr. Healy might have somewhere he needs to get to,” Holland says gently. “He’s not a pet.”

Jackson meets his eyes over Holly’s head. “Actually,” he says tentatively, “I don’t have any plans.”

Holland blinks. “You’d want to stay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Jackson averts his eyes for a second, then brings them back to Holland. “If you’d have me. For dinner, I mean.”

A grin widens on Holland’s face. “I can order a pizza.”

Holly claps her hands together. “Awesome! I want pepperoni.” She opens the fridge and frowns. “There’s only one YooHoo left in here.”

“Sorry,” Jackson holds up his empty bottle apologetically. Holly considers him.

“That’s all right. You can owe me one.”

Jackson nods. “Sounds like a fair deal.”

Holland pulls his arm out of the water and dries it off with a dishtowel. “Mr. Healy only gets to stay if you do all your homework.”

Holly rolls her eyes. “Wow, dad. What a threat. That’s going to be a real hardship for me.”

“She’s got your sarcasm.” Jackson murmurs as she heads to her room.

Holland rolls his eyes identically to his daughter. “It’s genetic.” He glances over at Jackson. “You really wanna stay?”

“You wanna stop making me say that I do?”

“Fair enough,” Holland turns to grab the number of the pizza place off the fridge. He grabs his newspaper ad, too, and starts to idly doodle on it as he dials to order. The face that materializes next to his looks vaguely Filipino, but it’s a work in progress.

“Hello, Joey Pepperoni’s? I’d like to place an order for two pies…”


End file.
